If the past week has reminded us of anything, it is that world-historical politicians are people just like you and me, except they are on live television.
They struggle to open jars
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They get haircuts
They laugh, they cry, they get sick, and they die.
In the interest of humanizing the men and women who lead the country, the Washington Free Beacon checked in with other notable politicians to see what they were up to.
Tim Kaine Vacuums the Carpet
"You know what the Romans say, Anne?" Tim Kaine asked with an impish glimmer in his eye as he blew into the kitchen of his Richmond, Virginia, home on Saturday morning.
"What do they say?" said Tim’s long-suffering wife, looking up from the morning paper.
"Carpet diem, seize the day!" Kaine chortled merrily, snagging a slice of toast from the table on his way to the utility closet. Kaine derived great satisfaction from the mundane tasks of homeownership.
"After I’m done in here, I’ll get some yard work done," Kaine shouted to Anne over the whine of the vacuum cleaner. "Oops. Sucked up a dime."
Later in the afternoon, Kaine could be seen on a ladder in the backyard, cleaning leaves out of the gutter and intermittently blasting the neighbor children with the high-pressure hose.
Donald Trump Trims His Fingernails
Donald Trump sat on the porcelain throne and admired his hands. He flexed and unflexed the fingers. Radiant, powerful, gentle—and sooo long, Donald, an Eastern European voice in his head cooed.
They were the luxurious, bronze digits of a god.
The fingernails had grown unsightly long, however. Trump’s face hardened from childlike wonder into a Churchillian glower. Dirt had accumulated under the nails despite frequent buffing and filing; one fingernail had chipped from pounding the podium at his large and energetic rallies.
How could such perfect fingers create such imperfection? Trump wondered, unwittingly stumbling on the omnipotence paradox that had puzzled philosophers since Ibn Rushd—a Muslim, if you’d believe it—in the 12th century.
Then the moment passed, and a feeling of relief surged through him as he picked up the fingernail clippers. He had come dangerously close to introspection.
Elizabeth Warren Orders Pizza
"I’m sorry, ma’am, this coupon is expired."
Elizabeth Warren’s mouth tightened into a prim rictus.
"This isn’t the last you’ll hear from me, Papa John," she said, seizing the pies and slamming the door in the delivery boy’s face.
She hated capitalism.
Bernie Sanders Picks Up His Dry Cleaning
This can’t be right.
"Excuse me," Bernie Sanders said. "My kimono is not in here."
The dry cleaning lady turned to him and shrugged.
"This is important," Sanders stressed in his most belligerent Brooklyn tone. "That kimono is very dear to me, it holds great sentimental value."
"I’m sorry, someone must have taken it," the lady said. "Sometimes you get home and you have something that isn’t yours, and sometimes something of yours gets taken. That’s the unwritten rule of dry cleaning."
Sanders glasses fogged slightly. Without a more robust theory of property, it was hard to argue with her.
He slinked out of the dry cleaners, inwardly mourning the loss of his memento from that psychedelic summer of ‘69.
"Now what am I going to lounge around in on lazy Sundays?" he spat.
Barack Obama Ties His Shoes
"That was fun, gang. Come back soon," President Obama panted to the assembled elementary schoolers after a Let’s Move publicity event featuring light calisthenics.
Need to lay off the cowboy killers, he thought as he walked off the exercise mat, vowing to hit the gym the next day for dumbbell rows and elliptical training.
He indulged in jaunty small talk with the assembled press as he slipped back into his cap-toe oxfords, custom made by Johnston & Murphy for a sleeker, European silhouette.
"You can’t just lace ‘em any way," he said, wincing inwardly at the sneaker-dress shoe hybrid worn by the schlubby Reuters stringer. "You gotta lace ‘em up so the laces go straight across the eyeholes. That’s what they do in Italy."
He caught a glimpse of himself in the window as he stood up, and buttoned his jacket. Cigarettes or no—he looked damn good.
Joe Biden Tries to Tie His Shoes
During the course of Joe Biden’s late-night ramblings around Washington, D.C., the laces of his Reebok Freestyle high-tops came undone. After fumbling with the laces for several fruitless minutes, Biden sank to the curb, regretting his decision to shake off his Secret Service tail in Farragut Square.
"Awfully chilly," Biden chuckled to himself, shivering despite the retro windbreaker he had snagged at Salvation Army for $5.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog let out a mournful howl. Biden took a dozen determined steps away from the curb before losing a shoe and descending again to the curbside.
"Aw geez," he said. "I’m gonna die out here."
Early-morning commuters found Joe hours later, curled on the sidewalk with one shoe on. A seamstress, taking pity on the confused senior, found his other high-top and secured them snugly on his feet.
"Are you going to be OK?" she asked.
"I’m gonna be OK," Biden said, breaking down into grateful sobs.